


In Pride's Shadow

by lachlanrose



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Dark, F/M, Marie POV, Smut, adult, shipper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 01:04:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lachlanrose/pseuds/lachlanrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monstrous dark things live in the shadows and the Wolverine is the darkest of them all. Marie works behind the bar. A certain cage fighter has caught her eye... AU. Dark. W/R W/OC (Marie POV)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Lion

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The Wolverine belongs to himself, bub.
> 
> Feedback: Yes, please! With a pumpkin spice latte on top? The good. The bad. The ugly, welcome…
> 
> Author's notes: In honor of Halloween, something a little darker than the usual for those of us who prefer tricks to treats. This one is just a little bit AU. Marie and Logan still have their gifts and still meet in Laughlin City, only she's been there a while working at her uncle's bar. Logan's a cage fighter working the circuit. He takes an interest in the girl behind the bar, though I think it's pretty safe to say this particular Logan is a bit rough around the edges. He's the best as what he does, and what he does best definitely isn't very nice. Xavier and his band of merry do-gooders never enter into it. The usual warnings apply. (Hey, it's me!) I'd call it dark and twisty with a side order of dirty, and an extra helping of smut. You have been warned. Don't let the mention of an OC scare ya off. I promise she's fairly ancillary to the main W/R (ahem) action.

I am her. The unseen girl. The one their eyes pass over on the way to the girls whose smiles are just a little too bright and whose practiced laughter never quite rings true. Most are pretty, some are beautiful, but they all flutter about in the same salacious way. Chests heaving, manes flicking, tails shaking. They remind me of mares in rut, looking for studs to service them. And I've worked in this crappy fight bar long enough to know finding one's not difficult.

The young fighters come here to cut their teeth. The older ones come too, partly for the beer and the women, and partly to keep the young ones in line. It's a rough place filled with rougher men. Fighters mostly. Bikers and Skinheads. They keep all but the regulars away. Well, the regulars and the girls who come here looking for things they won't find with the boys at school. The men who come here? They're the kind girls are warned about as they get older. The kind their fathers forbid them to date. The kind they look for when they want a good time with someone bad.

And make no mistake, they are bad.

But I've also watched them long enough to see them as they really are. Most are lost little boys, playing at being men. They hide their fear behind ink and leather, behind crude words and cocksure bravado. It's not the ideology they subscribe to as much as it is the sense of family... Well, that and the chance to run wild and bash a few heads. Damned delinquents, the lot of them.

Alone, they're not really threatening. That's something that changes when they gather. Pack mentality, I guess. Still, even then, they're not the ones who give me pause. In the pack, there are always one or two who stand out, not because they act out, but because they have the power to keep the others from doing so. They never declare themselves leaders; the deference of the others does that well enough on its own.

Even after watching them, seeing them when they're not showboating, when they are simply men having a beer with the guys, I understand the draw. Just because their eyes don't linger on me doesn't mean I'm immune. I might not flick my hair or toy with my glass in a provocative way meant to capture a man's interest, but inside, I know I'm more like those girls than I want to admit. Truthfully, I think it's the nature of women to respond to such unfettered, unapologetic masculinity.

I know I do.

Those men, the leaders, they have the power to make me shiver both with fear... and with something else. Something darker and far more seductive. It's a strange feeling, but then again, women are creatures of contradiction. Part of me wants to nurture them, to kiss away their hurts and give them the softness they so desperately need, and part of me wants to submit, to be made to feel like a woman by experiencing the strength and power of their masculinity in the most base way possible.

In this bar, it's the Wolverine who stands out. He truly is a lion among men. Leader of the pride - in all its many connotations. His brutally beautiful body and fierce countenance mark him in much the same way. Above all others, he is masculinity personified. A male predator in the prime of his life. Potent. Cunning. Ruthless. And utterly without remorse. He is territorial and fiercely protective of his privacy. He frightens me, not so much because of how he is, but because of what he makes me _feel_.

The Wolverine knows his own power. And more disturbing still, he knows what that power does to women. I hate him for it, even as I press my legs together against the wetness his presence coaxes from me. It's unfair, but sometimes I think my gift has made my skin even more sensitive. Sometimes I want to touch him so badly it aches. Sometimes I'm thankful touching him is impossible. God only knows what I'd do if I could. It's safer for us both this way. I try not to think about it, except on rare nights like this.

He plays with me just like he plays with all the rest. To the others, I'm a shadow, the girl who washes the glasses and empties the ashtrays. I am a part of the background, a fixture so familiar they don't even stop to look twice.

The Wolverine looks.

I hate that I know he will... and that I can't keep myself from meeting his gaze when I feel his eyes burning a hole in my back. That's all he gets from me, though. I've never followed him through the bar to the shadowy alley out back for a good hard fuck against the dirty, rough bricks. All he gets from me is the satisfaction of knowing that I'm not immune to his power. Let him get satisfaction of a different sort from those other girls.

He might get it from them, but I know he wants me like that too. This is the fifth summer he's passed through, following the fight circuit north and the third I've been legally old enough to work behind the bar, not that it stopped me before. There is fire in his eyes when he looks at me now, even though he knows that I won't ever be one of those girls on her knees in front of him or getting her back scraped raw against the bricks out back. Thankfully, he doesn't demand anything more from me than my unspoken acknowledgement of his presence.

My uncle owns this bar and we live upstairs, in the shitbox apartment above. While the Wolverine is certainly not afraid of him, even the stupidest animal knows not to soil its own drinking hole. One day this bar will be mine and like all intelligent men, the Wolverine knows that women tend to have long memories. I know he's not afraid of me either, but there is easier prey to be had, and for the time being, he's content with baiting me. I know he enjoys forcing me to acknowledge my awareness of him, even in my own space.

He is here tonight.

Like always, I feel the weight of his stare as surely as any touch. And like always, the moment I meet his eyes, flashing playfully at me from under his dark lashes, he looks away. I want to believe he didn't notice me shiver as I felt my nipples grow hard, but the knowing smile kicking up the corner of his mouth says otherwise.

Bastard.

My face heats and I notice his smile growing bigger. His smugness rankles and I want to chuck the beer I'm holding at his arrogant head, but I know if I fire the first volley, all bets are off. He wouldn't care of the First Lady herself owned this damned bar; he'd be up and after me before I could take two steps. I'm not stupid enough to engage such a formidable man, not even on my own turf.

Luckily, I know his eyes won't stay on me long. They never do. He is here for game of a different sort and I can see his interest has already been diverted by a girl at one of the booths in the back. Strawberry blonde with skin like milk. She's a little bit of a thing, pretty, but too skinny and too pale by half. Usually he prefers them a little older, with longer hair and more curves, but I can see how her frailty would attract him. It's that, I think, more than her face or form that piques his interest.

He's hunting tonight.

I can tell. He's also on edge, more so than usual. Something dark and dangerous is moving in him tonight. Now his choice makes sense to me. He wants someone he can run to ground. Someone he can devour. I'm torn between wanting to warn her and wanting to _be_ her.

Stupid silly twit.

I notice him glancing at her with that sideways look he has, the one that makes him look part angel and part devil. Lucifer. The dark angel fallen from Grace. My palms sweat and I nearly drop the glasses I'm carrying. The Wolverine is focused so intently on her that he doesn't notice my near-accident. My uncle does, though, and turns from his stool to kick at me with one foot, muttering a warning under his breath.

"Clumsy bitch."

I sidestep it easily, used to the bitter ranting of a used-up old man. He's already three sheets to the wind and I know that after I've closed tonight, he'll stay down here with his cronies, remembering their own glory days fighting in the cage when their bodies were young and strong, when the pretty girls looked to _them_ for a good time with someone bad.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the Wolverine leaning in to ask the bartender if he knows who the new girl is. His interest is a signal to the others to back off, to leave this one for him. I wonder if she's even aware of what's happening around her. Young girls without dates don't sit unmolested in bars filled with liquored-up cage fighters. That fact that she is should tell her something, and yet she remains strangely unaware. Her naïveté surrounds her like a cloud.

The Wolverine will feed well this night.

It is not long before she feels his eyes on her and is forced to meet them, the same way I was. Her body language changes, predictably. She touches her hair more, plucks at her natty clothing and pushes her tongue into the neck of her beer when she remembers to drink it. The display is vulgar, and for a moment, I see the Wolverine's interest waver. Not because of the crude gesture, but because he doesn't want it to be too easy. He likes the chase. On the other side of the bar, the young fighters get a bit rowdy and she flinches back, moving deeper into the booth and rubbing her arms nervously. The uncertainty in her gesture recaptures his full attention in a way no base flirting ever could.

It's less than an hour before she's in his lap. He touches her as if they were alone, not sitting in a public place surrounded by people. His utter lack of disregard for social mores, coupled with his unshakable self-assurance, makes his appeal a hundred times more powerful... and observing them, I know what it is to _want_.

His mouth is on her, uncaring of who sees. I watch him lick her neck and feel myself grow wet. It's a sensual act, licking. Sensual and animal. It's like he's feeding on her right there, before us all.

It's another contradiction. He's so closed, so fierce about guarding his personal, private self and yet he has no reservation about revealing his sexual self, a part most men are uncomfortable revealing outside the bedroom. With the Wolverine, it is clear he curbs nothing. He is the same man whether he's behind closed doors or sitting in a crowded bar. His lack of decorum is as horrifying as it is compelling, and I'm thankful when the lion leaves my den.

He is back two nights later.

The girl is with him. The other fighters around them are rowdy and unmanageable, but spending enough that my uncle looks the other way. Frankly, I'm surprised he noticed at all. He's far too drunk already to make it upstairs tonight. And I'm glad for it. I recognize the Wolverine's body language and I know I will want to be alone in the apartment tonight. In the two days since I've last seen him, it's obvious he's claimed the girl. Her deference is clear and she is never more than an arm's reach from him. She is wearing a jacket that looks out of place here, like a colorful butterfly among black beetles. His hands are on her but his eyes find me, waiting until I acknowledge him before he looks away.

He knows what I am thinking and I hate him for it.

I can also tell the dangerous mood he was in a few nights ago has ripened. His big body is humming with feral intensity. The cage only makes it worse. He is brutal tonight. He will take her soon, most likely in the alley out back. An unwanted wave of heat burns a path from my brain to my womb and this time I do drop a glass, but my uncle is far too drunk to notice. The Wolverine notices, but then again, he's primed for such games tonight. I wonder, not for the first time, if he'll be able to wait. He's thirsty after the fights, but there's more than an hour until closing. I half expect him to drag her out without so much as a backwards glance, but he doesn't.

I should have known.

A hunter's patience knows no bounds.

Closing came and went. I left my uncle on the floor and the cleaning for the morning as I herded the last of the stragglers out and locked the doors. I did not want to miss so much as a single moment of the show. I climbed the stairs and left the lights off, moving silently through our spartan apartment with little difficulty. Our cat rubbed against my legs, wanting to be fed, but I ignored him as I dug my pack of cigarettes out of their hiding place and patted my pockets to be sure I had my lighter.

I know I'm going to want it later.

It's unseasonably warm outside and the windows are open. I climb easily onto the old fire escape. It's not like the others that overlook the alley – groaning heaps of metal grate and rusty iron bars. I have transformed ours with flowers and greenery. It is my sanctuary.

Or, rather, it was.

Now it is more a guilty escape than ever. In the wan moonlight, the vines make sinister serpentine shapes against the night sky. Though it's nearly black, I lie down quickly, not wanting to be seen. Careful not to make much noise, I slide a cigarette from the pack and slip it between my lips. The tobacco smells good and makes my mouth water. I let it sit there, unlit, while I listen to the voices of fighters below carry on the still night air as they disperse.

My sense of anticipation builds as they come closer, passing beneath me on their way to wherever it is they go at this ungodly hour. I try to slow my breathing and attempt to focus my attention on the night sky, wishing I could see all the stars, but the distant lights of the little town are still too bright and only the largest stars are visible. The others are hidden in shadow.

Like me.

I nearly jump out of my skin as I hear the Wolverine's voice directly below me, telling the others to fuck off. They know he's not a joiner, but it doesn't stop them from wanting to include him, to walk in his shadow. Good-natured catcalls and playfully crude sucky-slap noises follow. What he wants is no secret and I hear his low, husky chuckle blend with their ribald laughter.

The girl's high, drunk giggle rises above the others and someone quickly shushes her before she calls too much attention to the group. I hear the Wolverine's voice again, but it's so soft and low I can't make out the words and in less time than I thought possible the others have skittered away like spiders in the dark, leaving just the two of them.

And me.

* * *

Up next: **The Lamb**. Things heat up. Marie jumps from the frying pan into the fire. Any guesses what will happen next?


	2. The Lamb

I'm dizzy with the effort of keeping my breathing slow and quiet. The blood rushing in my ears makes it difficult to hear what's happening below. Another giggle. The soft rasp of fabric against sweaty, heated skin. The sound of heavy boots on dry, dirty pavement. I can see them now. The Wolverine's pulled the girl under the second floor fire escape on the far side of the alley. She keeps trying to move deeper into the shadows but he only laughs and pulls her back into the single shaft of moonlight that touches the bottom of the alley.

My breath catches. They both look otherworldly in the moonlight. Her features are hidden, but her pale skin has a fey, luminous quality - well, what little I can see of it from behind the Wolverine's broad back, anyway. And, God, the Wolverine... He looks like some kind of beautifully terrifying demon breathed to life. His shirts are already off and his heavy ropes of muscles are easily discernable. The moonlight has thrown them into vivid relief and I half expect him to sprout wings and take to the air like some dark creature returning to the night.

Power seems to radiate from him. I can feel it from here and I shiver, thinking what it must be like for her. Close enough to smell him. To feel his body heat. To taste his mouth. To lick the salt from his skin. He's used his bulk to back her against the bricks and pin her there. His head is bent to her throat, licking and sucking as his large hands work to get up under her clothes.

"Wolverine-"

She's wheedling; wanting to give in to him, but wanting him to at least give her the privacy the shadows will afford them. Good luck with that, sugar. I understand what she's feeling though. It isn't sex in a grimy alley or even submitting to a man like the Wolverine that has the power to make us feel dirty, it's the man himself. Women are such strange creatures. We're as capable of revelling in carnality as men are, we'll even act the tart and love every minute of it, but only if we know we have the respect and consideration of the man we're fucking.

Even as I'm envious of the girl below, my heart hurts for her because I know the Wolverine won't ever give her what she wants. He'll move on soon. Another bar. Another girl. Sometimes I wonder if he is even capable of sincere intimacy with a woman or if it's always a game to him. For all his intelligence, he lives very much on the surface, at least where women are concerned. He allows them to touch his body, but never his heart - and without that, I don't think respect is possible. It's not that I think he's incapable of feeling finer emotions. I suspect one or two good friends have wormed their way into his heart over the years, but I'd guess very few women ever have.

Still, I know his intensity coupled with his ability to speak so convincingly will no doubt sway her mind and weaken her resolve. She's young. And drunk. And God knows she's certainly no match for a man like him, especially not with his hands and mouth robbing her of all coherent thought.

I wince as I see her make one last attempt to slip into the shadows. "C'mon, Wolverine, please-"

My heart jumps to my throat. She's playing with fire. He's on the edge and she's dangerously close to pushing him over. This time when he speaks there is no amusement in his voice. "Stay in the fuckin' light, baby. Stay where I can see ya."

Typical Wolverine. He likes to watch. He's not alone in that. I can't see his face from here, but I can tell by his voice that his eyes are spitting hazel fire at her. Before she can say anything he's leaning into her, grinding her into the bricks with his heavy body and devouring her neck with teeth and tongue. God, watching him is such a guilty pleasure, but I can't resist any more than the girl in the alley below.

He's in control of us both.

I exhale a shaky breath as I watch him mark her with his teeth and yet I can't help but feel my anticipation grow as his words register. If they stay in the light... Well, he'll be able to see her and I'll be able to see _him_. For an instant, I have the desire to raise my arms like a pagan and thank the moon for the shaft of light illuminating this moment of base intimacy.

My fanciful urge is forgotten when a grunt from below recaptures my attention. He's getting rougher with her as his excitement mounts. She pushes at him at first, a token protest only, but soon her hands have slipped around to the small of his back. They're fluttering and pulling at him, sliding into the back of his pants to grab warm handfuls of that incredible body. I envy her even more as he starts playing with her, teasing and rubbing. When he's got her panting for him and making little keening noises in her throat, he pulls back so he can see what he's brought her to.

I can tell he's pleased. A masculine noise of approval rumbles deep in his throat and for a long moment he simply stands there, head cocked, watching her. My breath catches as his weight shifts and his body moves just enough so I that can see her. No wonder he's pleased. God, she looks like a rabbit run to ground, chest heaving, eyes wide, looking like she might bolt at any second, but I know she won't. He knows she won't. In that moment, I feel a connection with her, a sisterhood born of the knowledge that we are both woman held captive by this one man, by his sheer physicality. By the raw power he wears like a second skin.

I gain a bit of much-needed mental distance as he shifts again, blocking my view, but my mouth goes dry as he reaches between them and opens that damned buckle. He grabs her and presses her crudely against the thick bulge at the front of his jeans, rumbling in amusement when she whimpers. I know what's coming next. He might be reckless enough to go for a quick fuck in some dark alley, but he's not stupid enough to get caught with his pants pushed down around his knees. Even now, in full rut, he is still vigilant and I wonder if there's ever a time he feels truly safe or if he's on guard every moment of every day. He's older than most of the others by a good decade and now I know why.

No wonder he's such a hard man. How tiring that must be. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. I almost feel sorry for him until a voice from below reminds me he _likes_ the life he's chosen, that he enjoys wielding that power over us lesser mortals.

"Show me, baby... Ah, fuck, that's nice. Now, touch 'em." I still can't see her, but I don't really care. It's not the girl who interests me. "Harder. Do it like I would."

It makes me want to pinch my own nipples sharply like he's ordering her to do. He's growling the commands low and deep, but not threateningly. The Wolverine doesn't have to threaten to get what he wants. Actually, he's surprisingly soft spoken for such a hard man. He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to. It's the casual way he uses violence that's so shocking... and to be perfectly honest, it's that contrast that makes him so compelling.

"Oh!" She must have complied. I'm envious.

"Good girl."

I can tell she wants to hide, to press deeper into the shadows or to press herself against his wide chest so she doesn't feel so exposed, but she knows better than to defy a direct order. He makes her wait for the next one, drawing out both his pleasure and her discomfort. "Panties off. Now." There's a gasp from her but he only chuckles as he casually flicks at the hem of her short skirt.

"Wolverine-"

"Jesus, baby. I'll buy you more later. Just hurry the fuck up." A scrap of white flutters to the ground and there's a squeal from her as he slides one large hand up under her skirt and pinches her butt hard. "I can fuckin' smell ya from here, honey." He moves them deeper into the shadows and now I can't see anything but the moonlight gleaming off his wide shoulders... although I can tell from the way his arm is moving and the way her breath keeps hitching that he's touching her.

"Christ, what is it about gettin' fucked out here that makes ya so goddamn wet?" His words slip into a low, dirty laugh. "Least y'won't have any trouble takin' me tonight." He steps back from her enough so that I can see them once again. His hands have moved. He's touching her mouth now. Oh, God. His fingers are wet.

I know what's coming next and I avert my eyes. I wish I was more adventurous, but I'm not. I know it's stupid and cowardly, but I've never been gutsy enough to stay for the sex, just the foreplay, just until I see one of them go for his zipper. That's my golden moment, when I know he's so focused on his pleasure that I can slip away unnoticed. Like always.

Tonight he's impatient - it's him that reaches for his zipper, not her. For a handful of heartbeats, I'm tempted to stay. There's something wild rising in my blood tonight. Maybe it's the moon. Maybe it's the Wolverine. Or worse, maybe it's something wild from inside of me. In the still night air, I can easily hear the metal teeth of his zipper releasing, followed by a hiss of pleasure from him. Both she and I move at the same time. I start to rise to my feet even as she starts to sink to her knees. The Wolverine's rough voice freezes us both.

"No." He somehow manages to bark the order while keeping his voice low and husky. "Don't fuckin' move." I get the distinct impression he's not speaking to _her_. A wave of heat makes my face flush. Sweat prickles under my arms and at the small of my back.

Oh God. Oh. My. God!

My heart's beating so fast that the world spins dangerously. I sink back to a sitting position, shaking hands pressed to my chest as if the added pressure will somehow slow the frantic pace of my heart.

This is stupid. Stupid! Of course he's not talking to me. He's _not_. I'm a nobody. A shadow. Oh, how I hate that spark of 'what if' that's refusing to be put out by logic. I try to get a handle on my rioting emotions but his next words make that all but impossible. "Just watch." He's turned his body just enough that I can see what he's doing to himself. "I wantcha t'watch me."

I've eyed the impressive bulge in his jeans more times than I care to count, but this is the first time I've ever seen what's really below that buckle and I'm thankful I'm sitting down. My legs feel like jello and I think I've stopped breathing. God, he's beautiful - beautiful and so unapologetically _male_.

A thought flashes through my mind like sunlight off a silver fish. He's big. Even bigger than I thought and so impossibly _thick_. Come on, like you haven't ever wondered? I swallow a giggle at that errant thought, but the moment quickly ceases to be funny as his big hands heft the heavy flesh between his legs, stroking and pulling, showing us how ready he is. He's wet too. Like her. Like _me_. It's like watching an animal prove his virility before he claims the female he's chosen. There isn't even a hint of embarrassment in the practiced motion of his hands.

The urge to get on my back and spread my legs for him is almost overwhelming, but it's as if his words have turned me to stone. I couldn't look away if I tried. From somewhere outside myself, I notice that I've wrapped my hands around the iron bars of the fire escape, no doubt to keep from touching myself. A start of defiance blooms hotly within my breast. He might have demanded my presence, but I'm not without a will of my own. I won't break.

Not tonight, anyway.

There will be other nights, but I don't want to think about that now. I shut out that little voice whispering to me what it would be like to be the girl down there in the alley with him. And the voice that sounds like my mother, telling me what a wicked, immoral girl I am for watching – for _wanting_ to watch – what's happening below. For liking it. The thought of confessing this particular sin terrifies me, but not enough to make me leave. Not even enough to make me close my eyes.

My mother's right. I am a wicked, wicked girl.

But then again, it's my personal belief that we are all wicked little girls underneath what we show to the world. It just takes the right man to draw it out of us. Or in my case, the _wrong_ man. The Wolverine's stroking is becoming rougher, his breathing more ragged as he works himself for us. We are on the cusp of something... malevolent. I feel it crackling through the night, like the charge that builds in dry air just before lightning strikes.

His eyes flash wildly at her, but I swear the sexy little smile pulling at one corner of his mouth is for me. "Like whatcha see?"

_Oh, God, yes!_

I bite my lip to keep from answering him.

He hasn't raised his voice, but there's a hard, dark edge to it now that sends shivers racing down my spine. "Do you?" I can hear the girl telling him how much she likes it, how she loves to suck him, to feel him fucking her hard and deep. Afraid what will happen if I don't answer, I nod mutely hoping it will be enough to appease him.

Like someone flipped a switch, I can see his demeanor change from playfully aggressive to the edge of true violence. The darkness I saw in him in the bar tonight has surfaced with a vengeance and I know what's about to happen below isn't going to be slow or gentle.

I'm right.

He's on her a moment later, roughly kicking her feet apart with his heavy boot and jerking her legs from the ground as if she weighed nothing at all. I can tell from her grunt that his first thrust has gone deep and I feel an answering ache inside of me. A hot spurt of jealousy stabs deeply in my chest. She is filled and I am hollow.

Empty.

Wanting.

Jealous of a girl getting fucked against some dirty bricks in a dirtier alley. I'm suddenly glad I have no real family left to see how low I've sunk, but still, I am unable to tear my eyes from them. And unable to keep from imagining what it must be like to be her, stretched so tightly around him, pinned between his powerful body and the bricks that still carry the heat of the late afternoon sun.

She is entirely in shadow now, but I can see him, see the muscles of his back and arms strain and bunch as he buries himself again and again. He's through playing. I may not have had many lovers, but I know that rhythm. Her pleasure is secondary to his now. He's moving deep and fast, chasing after his own release. Watching his hips rise and fall between her white legs is all the more erotic because he's wearing jeans; they're open but not off. It forces my imagination to fill in the rest, and I'm nothing if not creative.

I mean come on. Let's be real here. What else will there ever be for me besides that?

And this...

The stark line of his dog tag divides up his beautiful back and I want to flick my tongue over the smooth flesh, especially the rough stubble on his throat. God, what is it about men's necks that makes a woman want to bite and suck? I want to taste him there. Scratch that. I want to taste him everywhere.

He's sweating.

Hell, we're all sweating and it doesn't have a thing to do with the weather.

The girl is getting louder now and from between thrusts, I hear him grunt out to her that she's gonna get them busted if she doesn't shut her mouth. She complies immediately, probably afraid if she doesn't, he'll either stop or shut her mouth for her. Smart girl. It would be good for him either way, but she wants to finish. I know I would if I was her.

His smooth rhythm is starting to falter now as he gets close, becoming erratic as he fights the instinctive urge to go as deep as he can and hold himself there as he comes. I catch a flash of her hand as it leaves his neck to slip between their heaving bodies, ensuring that she will not be left behind when he takes his pleasure. A throaty, breathless cry escapes her lips moments later.

I feel the raw sound more than I hear it, and listening to her come makes me uncomfortable on a number of levels, but it's soon forgotten as the Wolverine's body rocks forward one last time and then stiffens sharply. He shudders hard with the first wet rush of pleasure, with the last deep thrust into her body. Oh God, he's coming. I'm watching the Wolverine come. My body throbs futilely in response as his eyes flutter shut and his jaw tightens.

"Unngh, _fuck_ …"

It's so... _primal_.

"Unnngh, fuck..."

So instinctive.

"Unnnnggh, fuck!"

With each pulse of his seed, the muscles in his back clench, pushing him deeper. Clench. Release. Clench. Release. Clench. Release. Finally, he collapses heavily against her, breathing hard.

"Jesus, baby. S'good one."

You know, I honestly don't think he meant to say that last bit out loud. With a satisfied grunt, he drops her legs and pulls out, turning to rest his back against the warm bricks. He hasn't made any effort to cover himself. His eyes are closed and the muscles in his face have gone slack. Cock still half-hard and shining wetly in the soft light, he's the very picture of male satiation. His Adam's apple bobs once as he swallows, but it's only when the girl begins to sink to her knees that he smiles. His fingers tangle in her hair, rubbing the nape of her neck slowly. There's affection there now instead of just lust.

This time, it's the Wolverine who pulls them into the deepest shadows. I'm surprised and pleased by the gesture, by the privacy he's granted his woman. What she wants to do is incredibly intimate and I'm glad he realizes that. Glad that there are some things he won't share. Glad she's touched him enough inside that he wants to keep some things just between them. I can hear him murmur quietly to her while she cleans him with her mouth. I can't make out the words, but his tone is soft. A short while later, I hear her voice too, soft like his.

Lovers' voices.

Of course, I know there's more to him than the fight circuit, drinking whiskey, and picking up girls, but it's these little glimpses of the softer side of his nature that make what I feel for him so bittersweet. He's not a vicious, mindless animal. It would be so much easier to resist him if he was. He _is_ capable of softer emotions. I see it with the younger fighters when he looks after them. He's never gentle or tender, but there is affection in the way he takes care of them; the young ones who have really taken a bad beating.

It's the same with her. Not gentle or loving, but he does show affection in his own way. I can't help but wonder what made him that way. More than anyone I've ever known, he seems like a man who needs the softness of a woman's heart.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Women wouldn't be so drawn to him if he was utterly without hope. We like the idea that we might be the one to break through his tough shell, to touch the man he is inside, the man he gives us glimpses of when he whispers soft things in the shadows or when he uses the money he's won taking punches to buy a plate of food for the starving dog out back, or when he scrounges up a makeshift pillow and blanket for one of young fighters when they've taken one too many hard punches. Those softer moments are made all the more vivid, simply because they are so few and far between and they contrast so sharply with the casual way he uses violence in his everyday life.

He is not a nice man.

But he's a good man. Even lost to whatever pain keeps him snapping at the world like a wounded animal, it's there under the rage and the hurt.

I can almost feel sorry for him.

Almost.

But he's chosen this life and it clearly suits him. Maybe he feels like he deserves it. Maybe he doesn't know any better. Maybe he's afraid of the good things because once you have them, you start counting on them and they can slip away so easily. God, I know more than a little about that.

When they emerge from the shadows, the Wolverine's eyes are glittering and she's delicately wiping her mouth on the back of her hand and smiling at him. He flashes her a feral grin and tucks himself away, scratching lazily at the dark tangle of hair at his groin before doing up his jeans and rebuckling his belt.

With shaking hands, I pull a new cigarette from the pack and decide to go ahead and light it. I know he knows I'm here. He's known all along, it seems. Seeing the flame from my lighter flare briefly, followed by the faint glow of the tobacco as I inhale, isn't going to tell him something he doesn't already know. Screw him. I'm wet and frustrated and I damn well need this smoke, hiding place be damned.

Below me, the girl's grabbing up his shirts and jacket from where he'd tossed them over the top of a stack of wooden pallets. Still drunk and not quite in complete control of her balance, she knocks over the nearby trash bin as she pulls his clothes free. There's a horrible racket as the metal can crashes over on its side. Before either of them can react, there's a fierce clattering at the door of the bar as my uncle jangles the chain I've locked up with. He can't get the door open, but the Wolverine doesn't know that.

Instantly at the ready, his eyes dart from the bar's door to the exact place where I've hidden myself away. I hope to Christ the tip of my cigarette isn't shaking. I can feel his eyes burning into me, assessing the situation and wondering what I'll do.

The clattering comes again, followed by my uncle's bellow. "Fucking cats. Piss off, already!"

Below me, the girl giggled softly and then shook her 'tail' as she made a rather realistic meow. The Wolverine's defensive posture relaxed slightly and he grabbed her playfully from behind, covering her like a tom would.

"Such a sweet little pussy." He laughed at his own crude joke and then turned on a dime, becoming rough once again. His mouth was at her ear but his eyes were still on me. "That the way y'like it, darlin'? From behind, like an animal?" He licked her neck and growled low and deep, still not once looking away from where I was hidden. "That's the way I fuckin' like it."

Both of us knew his words weren't directed at her.

That time my cigarette did shake and I swear the bastard winked and then mouthed the words: _Next time_.

Good luck with that, cowboy.

I took a deep steadying drag and blew a stream of smoke into the air in answer. The Wolverine only chuckled indulgently as he lit up a cigar and disappeared into the shadows; the lion returning triumphant and satiated after a night of good hunting. I chose to say nothing.

After all, he has his pride.

And I have mine.

* * *

Feedback is love. :)

Author's note: Lots of interesting comments on this one. Thanks, guys! Occasionally I get the urge to write a darker, more feral Logan than I usually do. I'm sure this won't be my last look at Wolverine's grittier side. Heh.

Up next:

**A Work of Heart  
** Logan comes back from Japan to find a very different Marie than he remembers. Chalk. Ink. Gouache. Watercolor. A young artist reveals a man's heart, one colorful stroke at a time. W/R

**Fine Art**  
After being on her own for several years, Marie returns to the mansion. Things get painted. Sparks fly. AU  
 _(5 chapters. Unfinished, but y'all said you wanted to see it anyway!)_

**Sanctuary  
** A girl alone on a snowy road needs a ride. She offers up the only thing she has of value to trade: herself. An alternative look at how Rogue's first meeting with the Wolverine might have gone if she'd had to talk her way into his truck instead of hiding in his trailer. W/R AU

**Shine Against Me  
** Logan and Marie and talk about pornography… and then things get crazy. _20+ chapters (and counting!)_

**Walk the Line**  
Marie comes back after taking the Cure. "She'd always defend him though, even now – powerless and helpless, and they both knew it. It didn't even need saying. The care of this beautiful man was written in her bones."  
 _9ish chapters (and counting)_

Yep. Still clearly certifiable!


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